


My Dearest Christopher

by philosophical_fangirl



Category: Original Work, The Imitation Game (2014)
Genre: Alan Mathison Turing, M/M, THIS IS NOT ENTIRELY RELATED TO THE IMITATION GAME, and, christopher morcom - Freeform, in the form of historical context and emotional journeys alone, this is written in honor and memory of both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 12:50:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosophical_fangirl/pseuds/philosophical_fangirl
Summary: A letter I wrote a while back for a biographical school project from the perspective of Alan Mathison Turing regarding his relationship and thoughts towards Christopher Morcom. An extremely emotional work, this is written from historical context gathered from the biography by Andrew Hodges.***I never forgave you for leaving, but I hope you can forgive me for doing the same.





	My Dearest Christopher

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for giving this a chance! I know it may not be a traditional fanfiction, but Turing's work really inspires me and I want to pass on whatever memory I can of him. Hope you enjoy!

June 7, 1954  
My Dearest Christopher,  
I cannot express to you enough the remorse I feel. After all the years I’ve spent dreaming of you and the few desperate moments we’ve spent together, it was never enough to feel contentment. Forgive me, for I know I come on as abrasive. I know how you saw me, for it was in the same manner I saw myself. I must ask for forgiveness, my writing is atrocious. I told you once that it only improves when in hopes of you reading it. I do miss you, I’ve since as a youth counted the days we spent together versus apart. The number has become all too negative. Nevertheless, I’ve been told I pull through; by people. People I care nothing of. People who’ve mocked me, ostrichsized me, they don’t understand. Not like you did. Alas! Look at me. I can barely hold a pen and I’m still throwing salt. Nonetheless, it’s becoming difficult. Difficult to work. Smile. Go outside. Live. Live, my departed one. I must say before my sob story, I never forgave you. The thought never even crossed my mind. You never told me. Never bothered to mention. You were dying. I am dying. You selfish twat… The day you didn’t come back was the day I truly died. Did you know, that the night you were carted away to the hospital in an ambulance, I woke up and stared at the stars. The stars you showed me. The stars, that for the first time in my life, I’d truly seen. Did you know, that the day the headmaster called me into his office to tell me you’d gone, he was shocked. Astounded even. That you had not told me. I remain to this day in denial that you wouldn’t have told me. You. You insolent idiot. With your stupidly beautiful blue eyes. The eyes that saw faith in me. The eyes that I hope, pray and dream every night viewed me in the same way as I view you. The eyes that saw the stars as more than celestial beings. Things that were larger than ourselves. Unconditional. That is what you saw in them. By the love of all the stars and heaven almighty, I beg of you to see it in my eyes as well. Selfish. That’s what you were. But selfless, that’s what you are. Giving everything to me. Things I never asked for. Things you knew good and well weren't expected back. Friendship. Love. Companionship. You gave them all to me. Unconditionally. I continue, to this day, to give them to you. Though we are not alike. You gave them to me, selflessly; wanting nothing more in return. The reason I still give, give for you, is in the false hope that you’ll love me. I know you're gone. Christ, I know you are. If I told you today about all of the people coming to me asking who you were, what you did for me, what I saw in you that I never forgot, they would laugh. Christopher, I continue to this day to give because I have a hope, a wishful, lustful, irrational desire. I say irrational for it is. I know the outcome. I know the logical fallacy. I see it in front of me, plain as day. I say irrational, because you’re dead. Dead, Christopher. Gone. You’ve left me. Selfish. That’s what I want to say. That’s what I feel you were. But you are not. I am selfish. I am the one in need of scolding. I must beg for forgiveness once more you see, for the moments after I knew you departed, I wrote to my mother. I wrote to her, begging her, to send a letter to your mother. To assure her your memory would live on within me. My mother refused. She told me to write it myself. So I did. I wrote and explained to her my relation to you, where I feel the rage within me once more arise for the fact that you never mentioned me to your family. Not once. Never my name. Did you know it came as such a shock to your mother when she learned I was your friend. More so the fact that you had a friend like me. She was shocked, but consoled me. I sent flowers to your mother and assured her I knew who you were. She asked me to write small, meaningful essays on your person, to keep your memory alive, so I willingly obliged. She told me I could come to the Clock House, I was welcomed into your home and your parents' lives. I was invited to go sort through all of your personal papers and belongings, where your mother let me keep, KEEP, some of your writings. I went on many occasions to the Clock House. I saw the fields and lovely, quaint cows and the collapsing barn. I was welcomed into your life. Forgive me. I needed to remember you. The most forgiveness I must ask from you thus far is asking for your photograph. I remember, writing to your mother, shortly after explaining to her I really did know you, then I asked for your photograph. She sent it to me. She really did. Looking back, she wrote that she didn’t have very many photographs of you, but she dug about, and with no remorse in her heart, sent me one of her few, precious morsels. I felt no guilt, and to this day it is hard for me rack up enough to call it that. I kept the photo, thanked her, and wrote back. Dear God, I wrote back. I said that I kept the photo on my desk. On my desk where I wrote “you encouraged me to work hard”. Forgiveness, my dear Christopher, for that same photo is on the desk where I write this to you. Smiling. Smiling at me. Your beautifully lopsided smile. The smile I admired and stared at for hours on end every day of my life since you’ve gone. Even now, I am guilty of this. Forgive me. I know I’m desperate. Even after all the memories I spent with you I still remain greedy for more time. Dearest Christopher, I can’t help but feel our time was stolen. Stolen as so much other time in my life. The Enigma. The Court. The Castration. Did you know I’ve been sentenced as a national sex offender? Look at me. You leave for 24 years and I go and fight in a war (in no more than a radio factory, I assure you), help defeat the Nazis whom you know nothing of, and then get myself charged with gross indecency as a homosexual. I’ve been charged to either a life in prison, or chemical castration. The government practically force feeds me hormonal therapy as though the pills were candy. I’ve grown breasts. This is no science, this is inhumane torture. I suppose I have no right to complain of my suffering. You, my friend lived with bovine tuberculosis (which I still cannot seem to wrap my head around) for 19 years. Then you seem to have given up. Given up. What a strange choice of words, I know. But you see, they fit my situation perfectly. I too, despite your well intended friendship, the government’s fear, and my family’s resentment, am giving up. I’m losing my grip. On everything. I can’t work. It seems I’ve lost my touch. Nonetheless I’ve been said to pull through. Ridiculous isn’t it? I’m not worthy of praise. I’ve committed a crime, saved thousands of lives, shortened a war, and how do I end up? Shaking, in a dark, cluttered room, where the work I so desperately clung to sucks the very being out of me. I chose the therapy so I could work, and through all the irony in the world it seems, I am unable to work because of the therapy…  
A long time ago, even back before Sherborne, I would hear the other boys chant of poison apples. Poor Snow White, dull and naive ate the fruit; forbidden and in sin just like Adam and Eve. Even in paradise. Paradise. In all their splendor, they chose to leave. I, like them, will leave, but not by banishment. It is my time to go Christopher, though I will not say it is to join you. For it is not. I know you are gone. I know I’m not worthy of returning to you. I know now, to value the time and friendship we’ve had. Too much work and patience has taught me to not ask for more than what is given. And I’ve given all of me to you.  
This is goodbye. Yes. This is a goodbye. A farewell. An adieu. To you. To England. To my work. I know not to dwell. I know not to hold onto things that can’t be kept forever. Everything can change in a heartbeat. Everything can change in the turn of a wheel. Machines can compute, computers can think, and humans can go along in the never-ending cycle of faked intelligence. I know all of this, yet I do not claim to be wise.  
Nothing is forever my dearest Christopher. Nothing can last for more than a moment. I stare at your picture now, and I feel no guilt. Not anymore. My Christopher, thank you. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being a part of my life.  
Yours,  
Alan M. Turing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to let me know if I have any mistakes that need fixing. For more Alan Turing recollections, check out my tumblr. https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mania-junkie (Just search for "In Memory of Alan Turing" and it'll pop up.)


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